Midnight undulates like a ghost, 

Content to aimlessly wander. 

I sit lamplit at the chamber window 

And conjure poetry from my mind’s theater.

As my pen sketches the play into words, 

I begin to recognize all of human consciousness 

As the artist’s stealthy tale-telling, 

Its iteration of perception into language.

If only I were a moth beneath this lamp,

Writhing present and sensual in its glow, 

Dusting the light with the flourish of my wings … 

Mmmmm, YES. 

I envy God’s mindless creatures 

For whom all existence is not a howl, a frenzied plea

To be wrenched from the doldrums of mind 

Into the euphoria of oblivion.